


The Terror drabbles

by potted_music



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-07-17 13:13:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16096385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potted_music/pseuds/potted_music
Summary: Updated April 20:Ficlet 11: one-sided Bridgens/Goodsir pre-Peglar's deathFiclet 12: angsty Crozier/Fitzjames, rated MFiclet 13: Bridgens/Peglar pre-series pre-slashThe list of earlier drabbles is in the notes.





	1. Crozier/Fitzjames, "Dance with me," for wildcard47

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlet 1: Crozier/Fitzjames for the prompt "Dance with me," for wildcard47  
> Ficlet 2: Crozier/Fitzjames, role reversal, for MasterOfAllImagination  
> Ficlet 3: pre-Little/Jopson, "never at rest," for lafiametta  
> Ficlet 4: Bridgens & Peglar looking for each other after the Carnivale, for caligularib  
> Ficlet 5: Little/Jopson, Little caring for Jopson while he cares for Crozier pre-Carnivale, for onstraysod  
> Ficlet 6: Hickey/Irving, sinners and saints, for puella-peanut  
> Ficlet 7: Fitzjames/Goodsir, babbling, for wildcard47  
> Ficlet 8: Crozier, Fitzjames, a coda to their confrontation in ep5, for lafiametta  
> Ficlet 9: Bridgens/Peglar, a thoroughly miserable PWP featuring erectile dysfunction  
> Ficlet 10: "Crozier/Jopson - Little who has a crush on Jopson is JEALOUS," for JollyRogue

“We are so far past the point of no return that you won’t see it even with the best telescope,” Francis slurs, staring down the almost empty bottle.

James is not quite sure what he means, the dwindling store of whisky or the expedition at large. Regardless, he pours the man a generous glass. Midnight has come and gone, but there won’t be any getting rid of Francis while there’s still a drop of whisky to be had. He rubs at his eyes and ineffectually tries to stifle a yawn.

The air of despondency hanging around Francis like the stench of whisky must be getting to him, or the late hour, or the four glasses he himself has had. If he had a clearer mind, he wouldn’t have uttered a word, but as it is, he hears himself say, “If you think the gloom will win you esteem and authority, you must have been misinformed.”

“Gloom?” Francis scowls, his wispy hair stuck to his brow with drunken sweat. “And you’d rather I danced and reveled?”

James regrets his words, even if they are not untrue; regrets the prolonged unpleasant conversation, but also, with no small measure of surprise, regrets the hurt in Francis’ voice. “Pardon, that was-”

“Nay, you’ve had your say, so let me have mine. The little Irishman, see how he dances.” Francis belches and makes to get up, succeeding on the second try. “That’s what we are for, all we are good for, innit?”

He leans heavily on the back of his chair, recovering his breath.

“If you could just stop the charade-”

Ignoring his words, Francis straightens his back and taps on the floor experimentally with the toe of his boot, then leans his head to the side, as if trying to make out through the haze of time a wisp of melody gone silent many years before. 

“Francis, please.”

With his hands akimbo, Francis starts to dance, flapping his legs like a grounded fat bird trying to take flight. One awkwardly bent knee almost knocks over a small tea table without Francis so much as noticing the impact. He closes his eyes, his laborious movements becoming faster and more certain by the second.

Roused by the racket, Bridgens peers into the cabin, but James waves him away quickly. It would be positively inhumane to subject the mild steward to Francis’ ire, especially given that this, much like the state of the expedition, is a disaster partly of James’ own making.

With the certainty that runs as deep as the ice under them, James knows that, if asked about it come morning, he will not be able to say with any certainty that he has not hallucinated the entire scene. Shedding fears and years, the captain dances like an imp or a sprite, a tricky creature from folk tales, and in the uncertain lamplight, he almost looks beautiful. James cannot breathe, his throat pinched with unwieldy, ill-fitting, unwanted wonder.

It’s Francis who breaks the spell. As if thrown by the intensity of his gaze, he loses balance and leans heavily on the table to break the fall. James rushes to pick up the overturned inkpot before too much ink spills, and by the time he looks up, the vision is gone, replaced by the nasty man he was drinking with. Francis leans closer.

“It’s been a while,” he says, breathing out the smell of alcohol and stale breath into his face. “Dance with me.” His lips curl back in a gap-toothed scowl, a large hurt animal ready to defend its life. 

James shakes his head, fearing that his voice might betray him, although he’s not himself certain what’s there to betray. Not swayed, Francis grips his wrist, and their eyes meet.

James knows there will be bruises on his wrist. He should push Francis away and cut the evening short, at long last, but something coils in his chest at the dark waters of hurt and solitude lapping in the eyes of his commander. 

“Dance,” Francis rasps, and James stands up.

He’s been known as the best dancer across at least seven colonies of three empires, yet he feels intensely silly and vulnerable when he jumps up on the spot, imitating what he saw Francis do.

“You need a stronger bend to your knees,” Francis commands, eyeing him with an eyebrow raised.

“Easier said than done,” James laughs, and obeys. His boots were not made for dancing, and neither was the floor of the tilting ship, but he wouldn’t have got so far if he was at all prone to giving up at the first sight of an unforeseen hurdle.

“That’s more like it, lad,” Francis says through a bellow of laughter, and joins the dance. “That’s more like it.”

He holds onto Francis to keep him upright, or to keep himself upright, he’s no longer sure. He’s soon out of breath with exertion, and laughter, and the joy in the proximity of a strong body moving next to his. There’s an ache in his knees, as if the kneecaps were peppered with broken glass, but for a while, the sound of his heartbeat, and of Francis breathing, and the clatter of boots on the floor drown out the hungry growling of the ice.


	2. Crozier/Fitzjames, role reversal, for MasterOfAllImagination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I'm giving Crozier Fitzjames' botulism from the novel because, to the best of my knowledge, he didn't have any major wounds to do the role reversal of the TV series version.)

"There will be poems," Bridgens whispers.

"Yes, obviously, and he'll be around to grumble about them," James says with the levity he does not quite feel, pushing aside the bottle with whatever concoction Bridgens has offered.

The next attack of cramps rattles Francis' body as if his very bones were trying to break free of the disintegrating flesh. James folds himself into the bed next to him and presses up against him, hoping that the rhythmic movement of his chest will push enough air into Francis' failing lungs.

"The cramps are getting lighter," he says to shoo away the clammy silence that made a nest in the tent ever since Francis' vocal cords permanently seized up and the screaming stopped, which seemed a blessing at first, if not for long. "Give him a couple day's rest before the next march, and he'll be right as rain."

"He is losing strength," Bridgens says, no longer mindful of what the sick man might hear. "You know he will not walk out of here, do you, sir?"

James is a captain, and thus responsible for the crew's morale, a duty he takes seriously. 

"If I got a promotion every time I heard that said about me, I'd have been long made Admiral. He is lucid. It's just his body that needs some patching up, but inside it, his mind is as good as ever."

He lets out a laugh and instantly regrets it when the movement jostles Francis' body. A tear runs down the man's cheek. It's an involuntary reaction, he's almost certain, but he quickly wipes it off, startled by how cold Francis' skin is under his fingertips.

"And that might be the worst of it," Bridgens says, scampering out of the tent.

At first, James tries to fit his breaths to the slow, uneven wheezing escaping Francis' throat, but gives up when the disoriented light-headed feeling descends on him.

"You'll be grateful," James says, carefully not looking at the bottle, and briefly presses his lips to the sweaty brow. He needs Francis to live, and that need outweighs the fear that keeping Francis alive has long turned into torture. "I have more lives than a swarm of cats, and I have not burned through all of them yet. I'm happy to share."

He sweeps the darkness lingering in the corners of the tent with his eyes, trying to stare down death.


	3. pre-Little/Jopson, "never at rest," for lafiametta

Goodness, Edward thought when he first met Jopson, all this expedition needs is another one of those solicitous or outright obsequious small predators scurrying about every great man like jackals feasting on lions' spoils: accumulate too many, and they will slow you up or drag you down, as sure as barnacles growing on a ship will sink it sooner rather than later. Crozier doesn't seem to have too many of those yet—a situation that will undoubtedly change after the discovery of the Northwest Passage secures him his knighthood—but then, unfamiliarity with this ilk doubtless makes him all the more vulnerable to presumptuous geniality. And thus, Edward takes it upon himself to watch Jopson, keeping a tally of his smiles, with which he is as generous as a lady of easy virtue with her affection, and of every flaw in his accent, impeccably proper at most times, until it slips like a sleeve of his uniform, baring the vulnerable brittle bones underneath.

Edward prides himself on being a good judge of character, and he doesn’t allow himself to doubt his initial estimate until the third day of Crozier’s seclusion. During this time, Jopson is never at rest, hustling back and forth, now to summon Dr. Peddie, now to bring hot broth, now to carry out a foul-smelling bucket. By nightfall of the third day, Jopson looks little better than Crozier must feel, his eyes acquiring a haunted, disoriented look bred of exhaustion and the lack of sleep. Is there anybody who'd take care of Jopson, on shore or on ship? Edward finds himself thinking, against his better judgment.

“Your wife won’t thank the Admiralty if you return looking like something a rag-and-bone man could rightly peddle,” he says, shoving an already opened tin and a spoon into Jopson’s hands. Veal soup, not a gustatory delight at the best of times, has gone cold while Edward was waiting for him, but he’s certain that Jopson will forgo yet another meal otherwise, so by God, he’ll feed him, even if he’d have to knock him down, pin him to the floor, and pour the soup down his throat.

Jopson blinks at him with sleepless befuddlement, then says, all to quickly and with a hint of something like fear, “I don’t have a wife.”

He masks his uneasiness with a nervous laugh, which never fails to make the answer more conspicuous. How very interesting, Edward thinks. Could it be that the desire that keeps Jopson at Crozier’s heels at all times is not the one for speedy promotion? What could have been happening in the great cabin during the long nights when Crozier’s drunken ire kept most officers at bay? And yet, Jopson displays not a hint of familiarity of a man who holds a base secret over his betters, so Edward quickly sweeps the thought away. Maybe the man really is that generous with caring, not keeping scores, expecting nothing in return, and Edward envies both that cache of love and being an object of such profligacy, and he wants it like a hungry man out in the cold wants a hearty meal.

“Eat up,” Edward says, touching the tin can in Jopson’s hands. “Then get some sleep, damn you. You cannot do your job if you are dead.”

After the can is empty, he takes Jopson by the wrist and drags him towards the stewards’ cabin.

“I’ll call Dr. MacDonald, or Dr. Peddie. Both, if that will set your mind at ease.”

Jopson’s skin burns like a brand. Ushering him into the cabin and closing the door behind him, Edward presses his hand, wrist awkwardly bent, to his chest, as if nursing a wound.


	4. Bridgens & Peglar looking for each other after the Carnivale, for caligularib

He stumbles, almost falls. He has barely time enough to imagine the boots of the frantic crowd crash through his ribs and blood fill his lungs before he regains his footing, but that suffices. With fire licking at his heels, he knows: one wrong step, a moment’s inattention, and these men, blind in their desperate rush to survive, will kill him before the elements get the chance. The throng around him, the safe and joyful multitude Henry sees as the big body of the ship of which he, too, is a limb, the laughing working busy organism that meant safety, camaraderie and home not a moment ago, becomes a threat. The danger grows like a tumour in the blood-red recesses of a body, biding its time unseen, but undeniably there. 

It’s not until he’s safe outside, where the night darkness hangs in tatters, worried by the flying sparks and the dying sighs of the blazes, that he remembers John—John, who’s older; John, whose work does not require agility and strength that have served Henry in good stead when breaking out of the tent. His throat seizes in a way that has nothing to do with the smoke.

He freezes in the midst of the human tide flowing away from what remains of the carnival, and looks around. His eyes burn with soot; in the dancing red light, everybody looks the same. He tries to take a step back towards the cut in the tent still disgorging the singed stragglers, but the crowd drags him further away.

He’d know if something happened to John, he thinks frantically, his eyes dashing from one painted face to the next, hence John is fine. He knows it for a lie, but even a white lie is a precious commodity when he elbows his way through the heaving crowd of devils, angels and all sorts of beings that heaven cast out but hell didn’t want.

He stumbles when someone pulls him into a hug. Panic rises again, but subsides the moment he recognizes John. John is the only body in this crowd that still means safety. Clinging to him with everything he has, Henry thinks, I won’t, I can’t let him go.


	5. Little/Jopson, "Little caring for Jopson while he cares for Crozier pre-Carnivale," for onstraysod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Jopson probably has no business dining in the officer's mess, but let's assume that he's taken to eating there because it's the space closest to the captain's quarters, so it's all about time management, really, and not running around the ship when Crozier might need him. *handwavy fanfic logic*)

"Permission to be frank? Fussing does not become you, sir,” Jopson continues without waiting for his nod. “You are horrible at this."

Unfocused wonder in Jopson's sleepy smile, which has not faded since he saw Edward wait for him over a modest supper in the officers' mess, belies the ruefulness of his tone. Edward swallows hard, clears his throat.

"I see."

"Besides, if you stay up waiting for me, Mr. Gibson stays up waiting to help you, and, since our cabins are adjacent, he inevitably wakes me upon his return. And Mr. Gibson wouldn’t say that to your face, sir, but he is starting to worry about you."

"Well, we wouldn’t want Mr. Gibson to worry,” Edward intones, biding time, still torn between Jopson’s unwelcoming words and the naked joy in his expression, the joy which, he suspects, is writ across his face too. “But you shall tell me if you need anything, is that clear?" 

Edward knows full well that he’s not the one Jopson goes to with his troubles, so it’s forward of him to ask, given that their difference in station may make his plea look like a command. These doubts make him all the more grateful for the nod of assent, a white lie though it might be. He lets out a breath.

"You are a good egg, Thomas Jopson. I just wish you'd take better care of yourself.”

Other things Edward wishes for, but doesn’t voice: that a traitorous smile wouldn’t creep across his face every time he saw Jopson, or that he didn’t notice a similar smile on Jopson’s face, or at least that their different positions in the ship’s hierarchy didn’t make this muddle an impossibility.

Getting up to leave, he claps his hand on Jopson's tense shoulder—the one indulgence he allows himself, a calculatedly innocent touch with nothing objectionable about it—right as Jopson cranes his head, working out the cricks in his neck, and his stubbly cheek comes to rest against the back of Edward's palm. Edward freezes.

Without breaking his gaze, Jopson turns his head and presses his lips to Edward's knuckles.


	6. Hickey/Irving, sinners and saints, for puella-peanut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for prostitution as the fandom's boilerplate headcanon for Hickey's backstory.

It cannot be him, John thinks frantically, his heart in his throat, when he sees something vaguely familiar—a recognizable cant of the head, a memorable line of the nose—in a member of the crew. Recognition makes him feel flayed and vulnerable with deep-rooted shame and regret, and he does not relax until he gets a chance to peruse the crew manifesto. Cornelius Hickey, it turns out, is of Irish extraction, while the young man he met (met, he repeats, drowning out all the alternatives his mind solicitously offers) all those years previously had not a hint of the accent. Hence, it cannot be him. A trick of the light, no more.

Truth be told, John’s recollection of the face is fleeting. All he remembers are the dirty sheets, John crouched between the spindly, sharp-kneed legs, pushing on, his sweaty palms trembling. The body under him clenched shut at first, John's prick merely sliding between scrawny buttocks, then yielded, letting him in, and the perverted earthbound will told him what to do next.

Even St. Augustine, the great proponent of chastity, was no stranger to bathhouses and bargains struck for lust, as he described them, when he first saw the signs of virility come to life in him. There’s no shame then, John kept telling himself, in finding out what it would mean to have had a man, if only he doesn't let this degrading act to become habitual. Arduous denial, he thought while pressing a clammy coin into a stranger’s palm, makes one no less of a slave to lewd nocturnal urges than outright dissipation. Just this once, he thought, following the man up dank narrow stairs, so that brief debasement would make his love for God stand out even sharper in the knowledge that he can resolutely discard the ardour of lust.

"Right," he said afterwards, "right," as the man wiped a wet cloth between his buttocks, where John's seed seeped from the stretched hole, destroying with a wince the traces of John's indiscretion. 

Not knowing the etiquette, John placed an additional coin next to the washbasin and padded over to the window. Sleepy birds pockmarked the rooftops; the spires stood out against the evening sky as darkened shapes, as if someone took a pair of scissors to the firmament and let the darkness beyond peek in.

"When I was a young lad, I thought that Wren churches were churches for birds, for feathered congregations." When he dared to glance back, the naked man curled up in the corner of the bed looked at him without much interest, so he added, "You know, wrens, as in birds."

And then the bells on all the churches around them started tolling all at once, scaring the impossible magnitude of birds into flight and reverberating against the low sunset sky, as if heaven was a copper pan covering them all, sinners and saints and birds alike, and someone was knocking a stick against it from the other side with the callous indifference of the very young or the very cruel.


	7. Fitzjames/Goodsir, babbling, for wildcard47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on novel!Goodsir, who's younger and more easily embarrassed than TV!Goodsir.

"Sexual reproduction has long been a particular interest of mine." 

The well-practiced ease with which Mr. Goodsir says it demonstrates that the dubious witticism has served him well in more than one salon, whereas his puerile swagger makes James suspect that the young scholar’s interest lies firmly in the realm of theory rather than empirical studies. Peering into the bucket, in which a pair of crabs has been clinging to one other in tiresomely long coitus for the last several hours, Goodsir adds, "I wish our species could have chosen some other way of reproduction though."

James knows that the phrase holds no deeper meaning than to scandalize a certain public and is hardly meant to withstand rigorous probing, and yet, placing his chin on steepled fingers, he asks, "Why?"

To his credit, the young man doesn’t hesitate. That’s what James likes about him, among other things: the quiet, unostentatious courage of the sort that, James knows from experience, does not betray its masters long after more obvious heroics fail.

"Other ways of generation would have made our species more prolific, for one. Take sporogenesis, for example. That’s when a species propagates by way of-"

"Spores, I understand,” James says, flashing an encouraging smile before dragging his thumb along his lower lip in mimed contemplation. “Frustrated desires, however, make for prolific issue of poetry and even, I'm led to believe, no small volume of scientific treatises."

Rosy blush spreads along the tips of Goodsir’s ears, but nothing in his voice bespeaks his unease when he says, "Nature is a thrifty mistress, and reproduction might be the most thriftless system we have, entire cavities in us occupied by our progeny, most of which will never see the light of day."

James doesn’t even try to hold back laughter. He throws his head back and bellows, clapping on Goodsir’s knee as if complimenting him on a good joke. The knee under his palm trembles a bit.

"Our progeny? That is an overstatement, certainly, or else the amount of progeny wasted on the lower decks would put any bloodshed of old to shame. Oh, the massacre of the innocents never stops."

It takes Goodsir a moment to grasp his meaning, and James can pinpoint the exact second when pieces of the puzzle click into place: that’s when bright splotches of red appear above his profuse muttonchops. Oh, James wonders how long this game can last, the game of late nights leaning together over new interesting species and phenomena, scientific discussion flirting with vulgarity. James wonders and knows that he should stop, or, more justly, that he should have stopped weeks earlier, but stopping is a habit trained out of him in military campaigns, whereas Goodsir, not a product of the naval hierarchy and blind to many of its intricacies, simply didn’t know when putting an end to things became the most prudent thing to do. Instead of beating a hasty retreat, Goodsir clears his throat and continues,

"Well, not progeny, certainly, but seminal fluid, most of which will be a great nuisance, but never come to any use. My point still stands. Besides, the organs of generation in the males of any species are vulnerable, especially in their active state. Delicate tissue enlarging with excessive flow of blood, all for a quarter minute of-"

"It’s hardly a quarter minute,” James interrupts, aware that his own voice has gone hoarse quite against his will.

“-of a dubious, farcical spectacle. What?”

“It’s hardly a quarter minute, I’ve said. And you are babbling."

"Am I?" A vulnerable, open smile spreads Goodsir’s lips, a smile of a person either unaware of the dangers or choosing willfully to disregard them. "Why yes, I think I might be."

That trusting smile makes James’ throat clench painfully, so he looks down at the bucket instead. The crabs keep mating with enviable disregard for the prying eyes of scholar voyeurs.

As if reading his mind, Goodsir says, "They don't care one whit who might witness their coupling."

"No respect for institutions either,” James agrees without looking up. “I have never seen a single crab in a cab to Gretna Green."

“In that, my friend, you are wrong,” Goodsir says. “I once had to transport an entire colony, well, of a smaller species, certainly, in a wicker basket-”

Settling into a story, he stretches his long legs. His ankle comes to rest against James’, whether accidentally or by design it’s hard to tell. The mischievous gleam in his eyes might be attributed to the anecdote he’s sharing, but then, it might not; breath catches in James’ throat, and it’s a long while before he can breathe normally again.


	8. Crozier and Fitzjames, a coda to their confrontation in ep5, for lafiametta

"What else do you require? Respect? Well, earn it."

The question keeps reverberating in his mind long after the sting in his knuckles subsides, long after the door slides shut behind the newly insolent Thomas, long after James starts spouting some other hogwash.

What is it that he does require? he thinks, blinking at the world swimming slowly before his eyes. Respect, certainly, at least in part: that they see his achievements and recognize his worth; but also, something far more nebulous and less reliant on his worth to the Admiralty.

He belches, automatically reaching to cover his mouth as James looks at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. Defiant, he drops his palm to the table. What he requires is for someone to look at him the way James looked at the thrice-damned ice-entombed Sir John: the way one looks at someone whose good opinion is to be treasured, the way one looks at someone who deserves a second chance. He requires brilliant, sharp Sophia to see him as someone worth sharing her life with, or, failing that, her thoughts. Love, he thinks, gritting his teeth; well, too bad. A drunk is what they see, an angry drunk, an incompetent drunk, relying on his steward to keep him appraised of the state of his own ship, and to keep all his buttons in place, someone unworthy of respect, never mind deeper feelings uncircumscribed to his usefulness.

He takes another swig of whisky, bringing closer the moment when he runs out of the good stuff and by necessity blows his brains out; at least when he drinks, he doesn’t have to admit that what they see now wouldn’t be that different with him sober.


	9. Bridgens/Peglar, a thoroughly miserable PWP featuring erectile dysfunction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because sometimes you just need to write a depressing PWP with ED, symptoms of lead poisoning and insecurities, as one does

"Nausicaa, too, thought herself enamoured with Odysseus,” John says, dragging the tips of his fingers along the spines of his modest but well-maintained collection of books, “when his stories about seafaring adventures and daring escapes could more properly be described as the true focus of her affection."

Henry moves his jaw, as if chewing longer words down to the size he could swallow, and then, finally coming to a conclusion, says, "Well, that’s rot. Are you saying I’m a girl?"

For a moment, that startles John speechless. He’s always treasured Henry’s direct manner, him cutting with straightforward patience through convoluted arguments John’s mind served up, often against his will, like Alexander the Great cutting the Gordian Knot; and with time, he came to love him for it. He wants to pull Henry closer and never let go. Instead he just smiles and says, "I'm implying no such thing."

"Yeah, you’d better not. Because I'd bet a tenner that I've had more seafaring than you, and all that."

"I don't doubt that for a second, my dear Henry."

Henry still looks at him suspiciously from under his brows, and John tries not to laugh. The smile melts from his face though when Henry resumes his attack.

“So don’t argue with me, yeah? We are abandoning the ships the day after tomorrow, and we will not have the chance to- well, after. I know you have your principles,” and John is duly impressed with Henry for managing to pronounce the word like the most repugnant swear while simultaneously mixing up several consonants in it, “but if we don’t do it now, when we still have the chance, we’ll just never, right? And that’d be a bloody shame.”

“There will be plenty of opportunities in England,” John says, knowing it for a lie, and knowing that Henry knows it too. It’s too late to be guided by fear, when the worst they could fear has already come to pass, the ships hopelessly beset in old ice. His fear of discovery seems very puny indeed against his near-certainty of their impending death.

And this is how they end up deep in the hold, a sooty candle illuminating a scene worthy of Rabelaisian comedy, two men with breeches hastily pushed down frozen in identical poses, a palm covering the crotch, if for entirely different reasons: John hiding his eagerness, Henry the absence of it.

“It never happened with-” Henry says, glancing down at his uncooperative member, an unfamiliar note of hysteria creeping into his voice, “-well, before. Never happened before.”

It never happened with women, he must have wanted to say, John thinks with detachment. Of course, the reality of an aging male body, with greying hairs and the beginnings of a soft paunch, is quite different both from what Henry had experienced and from what he may have expected, and yet the boy pressed on with the same unostentatious courage that helped him climb the highest masts. John presses his lips to Henry’s brow in a meagre reassurance; unfortunately, the step closer to the boy brings John’s prick, rock-hard despite visible proof that Henry finds him less than desirable, into contact with Henry’s bare hip. It bobs joyfully and with little regard for John’s awkward predicament.

“It’s quite alright,” John says. “Nerves do that to the best of us. Let me.” 

Holding himself steady with a palm against the crates that will be left behind on the ship, he goes down on one knee and takes Henry’s cock in his mouth. It’s been a couple of days since the crew last bathed, but the taste of an unwashed body soon disappears. He closes his eyes, swirling his tongue around Henry’s foreskin.

The pliant softness in his mouth feels vulnerable, more intimate, he’s certain, than a cockstand would have been; besides, a race to a speedy release would leave no room for languid caresses. Rubbing his palm against his vest to warm it, John places it on Henry’s hip, kneading his muscles and trying to remember the drag of coarse hairs for later, when they will only touch, if at all, through layers of clothing. 

“It’s no good,” Henry says after a while, touching his head, “Please get up.”

John wouldn’t have given up so easily, except each minute does increase their chance of discovery. His knees creaking, he clambers up, casting one last look at Henry’s cock, which glistens with his spit in the guttering candlelight. He thinks he sees a hint of bruises where he held onto Henry’s hip, and feels momentarily guilty for his unreciprocated eagerness.

“Come on, show me how you like it,” Henry says, nodding at John’s cockstand.

John did want to become a thespian when he was a lad of twenty, so he shouldn’t be shy about giving a performance for one, and yet he does feel uneasy giving his cock a pull under Henry’s intent gaze. He breathes a sigh of relief when the man steps closer and covers John’s fingers with his.

“I wish I could bend you over these crates here, open you wide, push into you,” Henry whispers wetly against his neck, his hand firm on John’s cock. “I’d hold you down, go good and slow, and you’ll take every inch, and then every drop. How’d you like that?” 

Not very much, John supposes, as buggery was never his favourite act: he could never relax enough to make it anything other than an exercise in endurance, and was too scared of hurting his partner to enjoy the giving role. But there seems to be little point in bringing it up now, so he lets Henry have his fantasy. When John jerks into his touch, Henry grins widely, flashing his darkening gums. Fear coils in John’s throat at the sight of the symptom Dr. Goodsir has been telling him about, fear and guilty relief at the alternative explanation for Henry’s lack of interest. He presses his fingers to Henry’s mouth, covering the ominous sight.

“Yeah,” Henry laughs against his fingers, “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Maybe he would, John is ready to concede, pushing against Henry’s calloused fingers. Rough touch burns almost as much as licks of cold air, and for a moment, he imagines himself stretched open, sprite lean Henry above him, shielding him from the world. He leans down and kisses him, groaning in complaint when the movement of Henry’s hand slows down, and through that kiss, Henry never stops smiling.

“Thanks for not making a scene,” he whispers into John’s lips. “I’m sorry, I dunno why it’s like this, I know you wanted more-”

“You, I want you,” John rasps, “you silly sod, why would I ever want something else?”

The ice gives out a low hungry moan in the darkness somewhere close to the ship, and John, a jealous lover, bares his teeth in the direction of the noise.


	10. "Crozier/Jopson - Little who has a crush on Jopson is JEALOUS," for JollyRogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an AU where Crozier doesn't stop drinking immediately after ep5.  
> content warning for a discussion of consent issues, because if Little found out about Crozier/Jopson, jealousy probably wouldn't be his primary concern.

Crozier's drunken ire has made a slinking, skulking thief of Little, but that's nothing compared to what it almost made of Lady Silence, namely, dead meat, or what it has made of Blanky, who's gamely hobbling around on his new peg leg, or, come to that, what it has made of Jopson.

Crozier must believe he's discreet enough, but discretion was always no more than a pretence in this tightly-packed mass of humanity: you don’t get a breath of air that wasn’t breathed in and out and farted into by all your mates, you can’t walk across the deck without brushing against the unwashed, scratching, failing flesh, and you certainly don’t fuck your steward unless you don’t care who hears. Turning a blind eye has always been the better part of valour; unfortunately, Little suddenly doesn’t know how to do that. Little watches Jopson, see. He started to watch him to make sure that Crozier was in good hands, and then continued because Jopson was often the one island of serenity during increasingly sombre dinners on Terror, and then he never stopped. He doesn’t know how to stop, if he’s perfectly honest, much like he doesn’t know how to step out of the great cabin the moment he realizes what’s going on behind the flimsy door of captain’s cabin.

There’s something almost animalistic about the short breathless whines he hears, so at odds with the affable and civilized Jopson that Little doesn’t immediately recognize his voice, and when he does, it freezes him in place.

“Easy now, love.” Crozier says, mere steps and a door away. “God, you are beautiful like this.”

Crozier’s voice is blurred with drunk disbelieving wonder, so at odds with the horror of what he’s doing. Refusing a captain’s order is mutiny. A captain can expect to be obeyed. Crozier knows that Jopson cannot say no, and yet he- but before Little can finish the thought, there’s a soft laugh—Jopson’s—and a creak of the bed. 

“More-” Jopson again, giddy, and, “Please.”

The easy laughter in Jopson’s voice is the more horrifying thing Little has heard, by far. Not having the choice but to submit, Little thinks, Jopson must have persuaded himself that he welcomes it, because acknowledging the full truth of it would be too painful. Little has considered sliding the door of Crozier’s cabin open and putting a stop to this, but that, he now realizes, would only add insult to injury, shattering both the pretence of ignorance and Jopson’s defences in one blow.

The thought finally breaks Little’s paralysis, and he sneaks quietly out of the great cabin to formulate an alternative course of action. Glancing every which way to make sure that nobody sees him, Little slips into Jopson’s cramped bunkroom and prepares to wait. It won’t be long, he thinks with anger; it’s nothing short of a miracle that it’s happening at all, given how much the captain drinks. And right enough, his hands have barely stopped shaking before Jopson slides the door open, humming a jaunty tune under his breath. 

Noticing a visitor in his dark room, Jopson gives a start.

“It’s me,” Little says as his throat clenches at the sight of Jopson’s suddenly tense posture. He’s not the one Jopson should be afraid of, after all. There are more horrible things here, both prowling outside the ship and nesting inside. His hands start shaking again, and when he tries to light a candle, he cannot strike a match.

“Let me,” Jopson says, stepping closer and taking the matchbox from his hand. “Lieutenant, how can I help you?”

Jopson is so close that Little can smell him, can feel the warmth of his breath. He says in a measured tone, taking great care not to betray his anger and not to spook Jopson,

"What he's doing to you- you don’t have to suffer it." Hoping that he won’t spook Jopson, given the nature of the conversation, might have been overly optimistic, so Little whispers, before Jopson has the chance to get a word in, "There are always men who'd use their superior station to press themselves on their underlings. I wish I never lived to see the day when I discovered Crozier to be one of them."

Little’s disgust and horror, he’s ashamed to admit, is mixed liberally with envy. There’s no end to things he could have dared to try if not for his position as the captain’s second, things that drive away sleep and shame, and they all come crowding back now, as uncertain candlelight dances on Jopson’s face.

"You don’t understand. It’s nothing of the kind," Jopson says, placing the candleholder on the table with more force than necessary.

"You don't need to lie to cover him here,” Little says, and adds hastily, “not with me. I know that he’s not fit to command, and this is far from the only reason.”

"Is that what you believe?” Jopson asks, leaning his head curiously to the side. “I'm not lying, Lieutenant. If anything, I pressed him."

Little laughs at the absurdity of the idea, but that doesn’t stop Jopson from continuing.

"We've both seen how much he drinks. Do you think he had clear enough judgment to consider the consequences? I did though."

“You admit that his judgment is impaired at best, and you expect him to be able to command the expedition? After he tried to send Lady Silence into the ice, after he sent Blanky on deck needlessly- you don’t have to submit to it. None of us should be expected to submit to his command.”

Little almost misses the moment when Jopson’s habitual earnest expression changes into something more vicious, like he suddenly donned, or rather doffed a mask. 

"Captain Crozier is our best hope of getting out of this hell, and if you think that whatever you believe you saw furnishes you with further reasons for mutiny, you should think again.”

Until that moment, Little didn’t think of what he might be suggesting as mutiny, but, once the idea takes hold, it’s hard to get rid of. “Putting a stop to an action punishable by death is not mutiny.”

“And what do you think is more likely: he, or me, or both of us hang for sodomy, or you hang for mutiny?” There’s genuine curiosity in Jopson’s voice, and familiar softness belying his words. “Either way, it’d have to be makeshift gallows, quite low. It takes an awfully long time for men to die like this, without a clean drop.”

“You are a fool, Thomas Jopson,” Little rasps, his throat suddenly dry.

“It’s not a nice way to die. Between you and me, I’d much prefer that thing on the ice.”

And then, incongruously, a smile spreads on Jopson’s face, lighting it up from the inside.

“Ice is a tricky beast, Lieutenant. It groans and complains, it gets on our nerves and clouds our perception. You never know what you hear.”

“I know what I heard.”

“With all due respect, you really don’t.” 

Jopson reaches out and touches his neck where the noose would lie.


	11. One-sided Bridgens/Goodsir pre-Peglar's death

Few things are more obscene than falling in love with another man while your loved one is dying. Hunched over the medicine cabinet to catalogue their depleted supplies, John glances up now and again to watch Dr. Goodsir, exhaustion having stripped him of modesty, perform his evening ablutions.

Around the medical tent, the camp groans in its sleep, and past it lurk miles and miles of hungry ice, and in the center, this pale body, defiantly alive.

“Did you want anything, Mr. Bridgens?” Dr. Goodsir asks wearily, wiping at his chest with a cold wet cloth.

“You are bleeding,” John says, and gets up, and carefully touches Dr. Goodsir’s hairline. Henry lies dying in the next tent over, and John will visit him before going to sleep, buttressed against despair with the new shameful feelings curled tightly in his chest. For now, he withdraws his fingers and curls his hand into a fist, holding onto a smudge of Dr. Goodsir’s blood like a holy relic.

John knows, in essence if not in detail, what he will do when—and there are no ifs about it, not anymore—Henry dies; had it mapped out since before he believed fully that it will come to pass. Dr. Goodsir’s death, in contrast and against reason, remains unthinkable.


	12. Angsty Crozier/Fitzjames, rated M

The nervous pressure of James’s bony fingers withdraws, leaving Francis feeling empty and slightly shameful. To put an end to the awkward moment, he decisively shifts his legs open wider, in vain: James is cumbersomely enthusiastic in their coupling, as if he was listing all the ways bodies could twist and bend and slot together for his lieutenant’s examination, and Francis shudders to see a familiar pondering look crease his brows.

“Just get on with it, why don’t you,” he grumbles as he tries to pull James closer.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” James says, demanding.

“You won’t.”

He does though, just not in that particular moment, and not in that particular way, but the tent shot through with light, reeking of a sick body ceding quarter after quarter in its fight with death, still lies in the distant unknowable future; and for now, Francis reaches up and presses a slobbery kiss to his forehead.


	13. Bridgens/Peglar pre-series pre-slash

There's one thing Peglar knows for sure: Mr. Bridgens is a good man. Not very good at getting that across, mind, but that's what Peglar's for, so the next time Wilkes, that pesky midshipman who fancies himself a lieutenant, no less, starts mouthing off his usual hogwash about Mr. Bridgens being a Mary-Ann, enough’s enough. Peglar licks a chicken bone with a slurp, not letting a morsel of meat go to waste, and throws it across the table at him.

"No he isn't."

Wilkes ducks, to general laughter, but some lads just don’t know what’s good for them. "Is too. And whatsit to you? You fucking him?"

That’s when Peglar leans across the table and clocks him in the jaw, because what else did the bastard expect? Wilkes goes down like a log. Plates clattering to the floor, Peglar jumps over the table, but when he aims to kick the little pest in the ribs for good measure, the fucker grabs him by the foot and twists.

The table hoots when Peglar crashes to the floor, trying to twist and land a punch, but Wilkes manages to get him into a stranglehold and knock his head against the floor. His cheekbone hits the planks with a dull knock. There’s no pain though, not yet, just anger. Through the roaring of blood in his ears, Peglar can hear the seamen egging them on, and notes with pleasure that his name is shouted louder. He jabs his elbow out, catching Wilkes in the gut, and is ready to struggle out of the weakened hold when someone yelps from the door, “Lieutenant Johnson’s coming!”

They roll quickly to the sides and scramble to their feet, just in time to not end up in even worse trouble.

“Everything alright here?” Lieutenant asks, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Wilkes fell,” Peglar says, glaring daggers at the little fucker. “Must have downed his grog too fast.”

“I’ll escort him to the sickbay,” the cook chimes in quickly, and puts a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder to prevent any further unpleasantness.

"Sickbay is for nances," Peglar hisses after Lieutenant Johnson departs, followed by Wilkes, and moves his foot experimentally. His ankle hurts, but it's probably nothing worse than a sprain. Then he reaches to touch his cheekbone, and winces at the sharp pain. He must look a right picture, he does, and it’ll probably be even worse tomorrow, after the bruise has had time to bloom. He won’t go to the sickbay, but he should probably have it seen to.

Mr. Bridgens is a good man, this much Peglar knows. Nevermind the idle blabber: Mr. Bridgens won't jump a midshipman in a dark corridor, he won't shirk his duties, he doesn't cower in fear during storms, or whatever else the word "Mary-Ann" might imply. He helped Peglar write to his Rose while she was still alive, and bought him a bottle of good whisky when she died, and tried to teach him to read. Mr. Bridgens never yelled at him, not once, even when Peglar couldn't for the life of him remember his letters. Peglar doesn't need letters all that much, mind, he's not one of those bookish folks, thank you very much, but he likes seeing Mr. Bridgens smile, so he tries his best.

When Peglar knocks on his door, he opens without complaint, despite the late hour.

"Wilkes said something stupid,” Peglar grouches defensively before Mr. Bridgens has time to ask. “I put him right."

Does Mr. Bridgens know what's being whispered about him? He must. Everybody does. Why doesn't he put them right then?

"I see,” Mr. Bridgens says, ushering him into the cramped berth. “And will he no longer be saying it now?"

Peglar moves jaw, wincing at the pain. The scrape feels foolish alright if you put it like that, but what else could he do?

“If you wouldn’t mind coming closer to the lamp,” Mr. Bridgens says, and starts fussing over the washbasin, dipping a cloth into the water, and then pulling a tin box out of a larger cabinet.

Mr. Bridgens's fingers burn Peglar’s skin as he turns his face this way and that to get a better view of the scratch. With a sigh, he starts to wash the blood off Peglar’s face. Did he use this cloth before? Peglar wonders, and that makes him sad for no good reason. Sharing the towel feels like they were friends rather than strangers brought together by the cramped quarters of the ship, like Mr. Bridgens would still talk to him after they were no longer stuck together like this.

"It must be hard, being so passionate about whatever it was," Mr. Bridgens says conversationally, dropping the cloth back into the water.

And it’s not that Peglar’s passionate about the subject of Mr. Bridgens, but he doesn’t like seeing a good man being treated unfair. It’s a shame, is all.

“It will be a sight in the coming days, but it’s probably your pride that suffered the most,” Mr. Bridgens says with a soft smile. Pity he doesn’t smile more often, Peglar thinks. 

“My pride didn’t suffer,” he says, jutting his chin out, and the pang of pain makes him immediately regret it.

"Hold still, Mr. Peglar."

Dipping his fingers into the small tin box, Mr. Bridgens proceeds to rub alum gently into a scrape on Peglar's cheekbone, as if Peglar was brittle and precious. Peglar squirms.

"I've got your washcloth all dirtied."

“I’ll wash it in the morning. Well then, Mr. Peglar, you’d better get going.”

"Nobody else calls me Mr. Peglar."

“It’s late. The others might think God knows what.”

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate all comments, even if I'm often horrible at replying in a timely manner. Thanks to all the kind souls who read and comment, I'm more grateful to you guys than I can tell <3
> 
>  
> 
> If you'd like to send me a prompt for a drabble (character or pairing + situation or phrase), you can hit me up in the comments here, or on [tumblr](http://pottedmusic.tumblr.com/). My gratitude will know no bounds XD


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